


Somewhere Between

by spicedrobot



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - After College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Alternative Perspective, Dirty Talk, Frottage, Human Zenyatta, Jealousy, M/M, Older Man/Younger Man, Pining, Sexual Fantasy, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Smarm, Stockings, Young Genji Shimada, dilf zenyatta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-05-26 05:12:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14993546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicedrobot/pseuds/spicedrobot
Summary: A recent college graduate moves back into the sleepy childhood home he shares with his brother. Struggling to find purpose, his daily routine overlaps with his eccentric next door neighbor’s.





	Somewhere Between

**Author's Note:**

  * For [D_sel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/D_sel/gifts).



****When Genji comes home from college, he’s on the front lawn.

A row of shrubs serves as the fence between houses, so he can see every inch of the man stretching in the early morning sun. Tall and lean, with palms together and arms towards the sky, revealing a slice of russet stomach beneath an old, flimsy shirt. He holds the position for a few heart beats, then—

He folds forward in a single motion, face meeting his knees, hands flat against dewed grass.

Genji’s grip tightens on his suitcase.

Hanzo hadn’t told him about a new neighbor. Though why would he? Genji’s never cared about that stuff, spent his days in the city rather than the sleepy neighborhood that their father had moved them into as children.

“Oh. Good morning!” The voice is surprisingly low, soft with an accent he can’t place.

Genji’s face colors swiftly as the man walks over. The man’s just a bit taller than him, and Genji’s trapped beneath a bright smile and full, distracting lips.  

“I am Tekhartha Zenyatta.” The man extends his hand over the shrubs. “You must be Genji.”

“Y-yeah.” Genji finds his hand enveloped in a strong, warm grip, littered with callouses. He swallows.

“Your brother told me about you. I heard that it is quite difficult to graduate from the academy you attended. Congratulations.”

“I only just made it.”

“A success regardless,” Zenyatta says as they reclaim their hands, small smile ever present. “Have you decided on a path to pursue?”

“No, I...I’m not sure.”

The man’s eyes thin with quiet mirth.

“Wonderful, isn’t it? The world is before you now, and you have ample time to decide how you will exist within it.”

“I suppose,” Genji murmurs.

“I hope my younger brother is not bothering you, Mr. Tekhartha,” a grating voice says from his left.

“Quite the opposite. I was the one who interrupted him.”

Hanzo nudges past Genji, grabbing several bags from the trunk of the car.

“You should have called me when you were close,” Hanzo says, then, more softly. “Welcome home.”

“Yeah, yeah. It’s nice to see you too, _big brother_ ,” He grumbles.

Zenyatta offers to carry in bags, which Hanzo declines so politely that Genji double takes. He doesn’t miss how Zenyatta lingers as they bicker, a quiet mirth radiating from him as they walk inside.

 _Weird_ , Genji thinks. _Though nice enough._

* * *

It’s strange settling into his childhood room. Hanzo had cleaned it while he’d been away, all his comics and figurines set into order, his sheets starched and straight. Genji sits on his bed and debates a nap when something outside his window draws his attention.

Zenyatta continues his exercise, glistening even at a distance. His slowly shifting stances have given way to something new, quick, aggressive and almost familiar. Genji’s eyelids grow heavy, high kicks and misdirection as mesmerizing as the efficient, gentle mindfulness of Zenyatta’s previous forms. He rests that first day, lulled to sleep by graceful, silent motion.

* * *

Genji always wakes up to see Hanzo off.

He starts a pot of coffee every morning, about ten minutes before the soft drag of Hanzo’s footsteps announce his entrance into the kitchen. His brother’s never been a morning person, even with his steadfast schedule, and he always takes the steaming mug gratefully, the liquid sweetened with more cream and sugar than Hanzo’d ever admit.

Their mornings are quiet, but not uncomfortably so. They talk of work mostly, or casual topics, things that will hold the tentative peace of the house. Genji’s not quite ready to look at jobs, and Hanzo scolds him but doesn’t push the issue. A few years ago he would’ve fought, near violently perhaps, but the death of their father had changed them. Hanzo had stepped into Sojiro’s role and carefully organized their assets, watched the market and invested to maintain their modest fortune. Genji had helped how he could: went to school like his father had wanted, fought old habits that clung to his bones as grief, stress and loneliness compounded.

Funny, that they could only find common ground after the person who had always wished for it had passed.

Genji takes out the recycling a few minutes after Hanzo leaves for work. It’s still brisk this early, the sky clear and tinged with pinks and distant blue. Genji doesn’t even need to look to know not twenty feet away his curious, soft-spoken neighbor is stretching, long and lean, or bent low into positions Genji’s not sure he could manage.

The man is another strange constant in his life. Today he wears a t-shirt with cutouts, his flanks and the dusky tease of his nipples exposed to the air, barely concealed by old cotton.

He lets his eyes linger, glancing between Zenyatta’s face, eyes closed, and the steady rise and fall of his chest. The man always seemed so at ease, out of place even in such a sleepy neighborhood.

“Good morning,” Zenyatta says without opening his eyes.

Genji winces.

“Uh, hi.”

“A beautiful morning, is it not?”

In an instant the embarrassment fades, replaced by amusement.

“You say that every morning.”

Zenyatta opens one eye to look at him.

“And is it not true? Each day the sun rises, regardless of what has occurred in its absence, and will shine on what’s to come. It is a constant. For now.”

“Yes,” Genji laughs with a huff. “For the next few billion years at least.”

“An exciting prospect.”

Zenyatta, curled into lotus, stands in a single, fluid motion. It’s such a sight: Genji doesn’t remember the last time he’d been so fixated on the way someone moved.

“Is today the day you join me?”

There’s that playful lilt; Genji recognizes it now.

“I’m fine watching.” It’s far too early for him to do anything productive, and he’s seen what Zenyatta’s kick could do to the dummy he sometimes dragged into the yard.

“Hm. I can tell you are interested,” Zenyatta murmurs as he drops into a low stance. “Yours are the eyes of a man who prefers action.”

A shiver runs up Genji’s spine.

Zenyatta pivots, one arm cocked back, the other forward with a flat palm, poised. Waiting.

He doesn’t know what makes him accept Zenyatta’s offer this time. The look in his eyes, maybe. Curious. Knowing. Like he can see right through to his soul.

“Sure. Why not?”

* * *

Genji finds himself on his back several times before the sun’s crested the rooftops. He’s not untrained: his father had enrolled him in martial arts classes as a young teen, though Zenyatta makes him feel as unrefined as a child with how easily he deposits him into the sweet, dewed grass.

“No going easy on a newbie, huh?” Genji says, casting his arms out as he catches his breath.

“Far from it. You have been trained.” Zenyatta offers his hand to Genji, his face blocking out the steadily warming rays of the sun. “It would be a disservice to hold back when you can track my movements with some skill.” There’s that smile again, eclipsing the sunshine.

He takes his hand. Zenyatta helps him up like it’s effortless.

“I do admit, it is fun to watch your heartfelt attempts.”

“You enjoy watching me fail.”

“You do it beautifully,” Zenyatta laughs.

“Well then. I suppose I will have to keep practicing.”

* * *

Zenyatta invites him inside for tea afterwards.

They are sweaty, Genji the worse off of the two, which makes him feel out of place in the homiest kitchen he’s ever seen. There’s not much in the way of ceiling lights, but there are several lamps, all strange, eclectic things, like he picked them at whim regardless of how they clashed. It’s clean too, no piles of dishes or dusty shelves, just rows of rounded, mismatched containers beneath wooden cabinetry.

“Please make yourself at home.”

Zenyatta looks right here, framed by a large, curtained window and the uneven potted plants on its sill. He scoops dried tea into a small, teal kettle, the corded line of his arms leading Genji to his strong shoulders, his slim neck, peppered with freckles. Genji shakes his head and glances away, spotting a stack of books almost out of view.

“Haven’t seen paperbacks since I was a kid.”

Zenyatta sets his tea in front of him. It smells light and earthy. The first sip is smooth with the faintest hint of sweetness.

“I am a bit of a collector. There is something pleasant about holding a book in one’s hands, though for larger texts it can be a somewhat cumbersome.”

Zenyatta sits opposite to him at the small wooden counter, sipping his own tea.

“What type of books do you collect?”

“Romance novels,” Zenyatta says over the lip of his cup.

Genji blinks.

“Is that so shocking?”

“You’re joking.”

Zenyatta’s face glows with his smile. “I am. Though I do have a few, here or there. Mostly they are historical or philosophical in nature.”

“And is that what you do all day? Beat up neighbors and read old books?”

“Besides that, I write. I also teach kung fu a couple nights a week. You should attend.”

Genji winces. “And get my ass kicked in front of other people?”

“Humility is often the hardest lesson to learn.”

“You enjoy teasing me far too much,” Genji mumbles into his cup.

“I promise to be gentle.”

Genji scalds his mouth while Zenyatta smiles with that coy, unreadable smile.

Helpless, Genji agrees.

* * *

Genji attends one of Zenyatta’s night classes, realizing too late that it’s for children. Zenyatta couldn’t look more pleased after he pins Genji in front of a wide-eyed, giggling crowd, but when he stares down at Genji with laughter on his lips, it soothes away most of his embarrassment.

Genji goes to every night class thereafter. He actually learns a lot, enough that Zenyatta lets him lead some of the students through forms and help when they cannot hold stance or follow through properly.

“They have taken quite a shine to you,” Zenyatta says one day, offering Genji a towel from his position on the floor. He’s gotten too used to seeing Zenyatta from this angle.

“It’s the green hair,” Genji says, patting down his face, blearily engrossed in the gentle scent of sandalwood and cotton.

“You’re good with children. I hope one day you can meet my daughter.”

Genji cranes his head back to stare at Zenyatta, mouth slackened.

“You have a kid?”

Zenyatta stiffles his laughter with his palm.

“Not biologically. Ditya is my brother’s biological child, but she is my own. We raised her together before Mondatta’s work forced him to move around so constantly.” Zenyatta pauses for a moment, looking pensive. “Still, a child at my age should not be so surprising.”

Genji mulls over the words in his mind. “Your age…?”

“I am thirty-seven.”

“Thirty...seven?” Genji glances between Zenyatta’s unlined eyes, the barely there shadows framing his lips, his body, honed like the finest tool. “You expect me to believe that?”

“If that is a compliment, I take it gladly.”

“I suppose you’re my senior now.”

“That’s master to you.”

Genji laughs, fearing that if he didn’t he wouldn’t be able to stop the awkward noises threatening to spill from his lips.

“I’m in your care, shishou.”

* * *

Genji maintains the house and makes a simple but edible dinner for Hanzo each night. It keeps an even peace, even when Genji still hasn’t picked up steady work.

“You have been in good spirits lately,” Hanzo remarks over a bowl of miso soup.

Genji shovels rice into his mouth, chewing and swallowing before answering.

“It’s nice...being home.”

“You did not enjoy it so much before.” Hanzo’s brows pinch together, then he huffs with only the faintest annoyance. “Mr. Tekhartha says you have been helping out at the studio. I am glad you have found productive ways to spend your time.”

“He’s spoken of me?” Genji says with utensil poised over his bowl.

“Too kindly, perhaps. That man is quick to trust.” His frown deepens. “Do not take advantage of it.”

“I am not the same as before, Hanzo.” Genji stares down at his meal before meeting the widened gaze of his brother.

Hanzo looks chastened. Then a tiny smile breaks through his stern exterior.

“I suppose you are right,” Hanzo murmurs.

They continue to eat in silence for a minute or two before Hanzo continues.

“Thank you. I...appreciate coming home more since your return,” Hanzo says, stilted, softer than he means.

Genji cannot fight the strange emotion swelling in his chest.

“It’s the least I can do.”

* * *

Some days Genji finds himself choreless after he joins Zenyatta for morning practice. Usually it mean watching a web series or two until he’s bored, or gently browsing job sites as he sips coffee. His thoughts are always in flux, not particularly down-trodden, somewhere between calm and contemplative when he thinks of his life now.

On a particularly dark morning, just before the rain threatens to fall, Zenyatta gestures Genji inside instead of taking his position on the lawn.

“Let us take a break today.”

“Slacking off?” Genji teases.

“Should we practice in the kitchen? Or perhaps you would prefer to train as lightning strikes around us?”

“Actually, that sounds pretty cool.”

“Hm, it does have an air of romance.”

They laugh as Genji makes tea this time, grassy and earthy. It’s not what he enjoyed as a child, but he’s rapidly developing a taste for it.

“I was thinking of starting work early today. May I borrow your hands?” Zenyatta says.

“Only if you make paneer peda.”

“Ah, your price is next to nothing. One can take advantage of such kindness.”

“I’d eat those for every meal if I could.”

“You would have to double your training sessions if you did,” Zenyatta hums, unearthing a large notebook from the stacks on his desk.

Zenyatta writes by hand. It should be ridiculous, it doubles the work certainly, but there is something charming about it as Genji traces the pen’s indentations with his finger. The job Zenyatta gives him is easy: transcribing the passages onto a holopad for editing. He does it at leisure, sitting with his feet on his chair and chin tucked against his knees. Genji mouths Zenyatta’s words silently as he types. His print is legible, but slightly curved, messier in certain places, as if he’d been struck by a particularly good train of thought and rushed to capture it. He’d assumed Zenyatta’s writing would be filled with complicated terms and pontifications, but Genji finds it down to earth and oddly soothing the longer he transcribes.

Time passes like a dream in the quiet room, cradled by the sound of rain, rustling paper and the gentle, tactile sensation of digital keys. Zenyatta sits beside him at the same table, the scratch of his pen another constant sound lost in the flow of concentration.

He doesn’t even realize Zenyatta’s moved until he smells the aroma of coffee and sweet cooked dough. Genji leans back and stretches, his spine cracking with small, satisfying pops.

“The work suits you,” Zenyatta says as he enters the room with a plate of peda and two mugs of steaming coffee.

“Menial tasks are my specialty,” Genji says as he plucks a pistachio-topped treat from the plate.

Zenyatta clears a spot on the table to set the tray, leveling a gaze at Genji that makes his spine straighten.

“You should not put yourself down, even in jest,” Zenyatta says, placing a mug in front of Genji.

Genji nibbles at the inside of his cheek.

“I’m...sorry?”

“No,” Zenyatta’s expression softens. “I mean only that you are much more than think. You are kind. Patient. You persevere, even when things grow increasingly difficult. You take care of your brother though you have the means to move on.”

“I don’t—”

“You could, if you truly wished it. The strength you possess is deeper than you know.”

There’s a drawn out pause, those dark eyes unwilling to relent. Genji cannot stop the flush to his cheeks, prays that he manages to kill the stammer threatening his words.

“I...you’re right.”

“Be mindful. Always remember your good qualities. With practice, it will become second nature.” Zenyatta smiles. “Now. Tell me what you think of my writing. Be honest. I have become quite good at handling critique.”

* * *

He finds himself helping Zenyatta with his writing more and more, hell, Genji begins planning his day to make sure he has ample time for it. The work is interesting, but more so is Zenyatta’s writing. He’s as clever on the page as he is in real life. It also gives him more opportunities to watch Zenyatta up close. Intently focused on work, Genji can savor each shift of Zenyatta’s expression, the way his lips purse and eyes narrow when his pen stumbles, his joy as he eases into something like serenity and the words flow, constant as a mantra.

“It’s hard to believe your work hasn’t blown up by now,” Genji says as he finishes a chapter, sipping chai, spiced and fragrant.

“I believe I have a small following online. Perhaps I am simply too old school for the youth of today.”

“Perhaps if you wrote some tawdry romance collection.”

Zenyatta blinks. Then he swings the pen between his long, dexterous fingers, eyes thinning.

“Is that what the kids are into? I shall give it some thought.”

“I look forward to the first draft.”

* * *

On a whim, Genji searches Zenyatta’s name online one lazy afternoon. It returns the normal stuff, an article or two in the local paper, small award nominations, even a wiki page, scant but well-sourced. He idly clicks through, most of it things he already knows about Zenyatta. Then he lands on a blog and mouths the most ridiculous title he’s ever read.

_Reasons you should stop supporting Tekhartha Zenyatta_

The article’s filled with reaction gifs and unsourced claims, making it near impossible to take seriously. He consistently plagiarizes. He hired a ghostwriter for his book _Hands Clasped: Bridging the Gap Between Dogma and the Modern Age_. Genji’s barely skimming by the time he reaches the bottom of the article, but the author’s bolded some tl;drs: N _om de plume. Age gap smut._

Genji sits up, brows drawn low as he rearranges himself on the bed. He clicks the link.

It returns a generic-looking page, black on off white, a comforting relief from the previous site. There’s no ‘about’ section, only a name and short bio: _Lotiris. Writing blog. 18+. Posts weekly. ;)_

Genji’s fingers tighten around his phone, staring at the suspiciously unassuming emoticon. His pulse quickens as he scans the most recent post.

Inspiration strikes, and as we have wrapped up our last tale, I wanted to share something new with all my little flowers! It’s still a work in progress, and writing off the cuff has been so exciting. I hope it will be just as much for you. ;)

He swallows his nervousness and forces himself to breathe, gently thumbing to the full post. 

> Love at first sight. The phrase alone is enough to make any reader groan. Another tale relying on a most tired trope executed by the fledgling (or misguided veteran) writer. Yet, such stories cling to our collective consciousness. How many times have we read and been enamored with such a scenario? A person so gorgeous, so inherently magnetic, that we lose our senses so that the world softens around us and becomes brighter as we bask in the aura of our arrow’s strike lover.
> 
> A wondrous, exciting thing, to be enthralled by one whom has endless possibilities in that moment. This is how I first laid eyes on him, laughing silently as my heart thrummed in my chest, desperate to be heard!
> 
> His hair is short, vibrant fuschia, styled only by fingers run through it, an unconscious motion that tails his laughter, gently chagrined as he stumbles through introductions. Cheekbones high and proud, wide shoulders, quiet strength beneath a fitted jacket, bright eyes that flicker along my body before pointedly settling on my face.
> 
> Shinji. My neighbor’s wayward brother, so says Taro whenever I catch him for tea, always endlessly talking of him. I suppose I have the upper hand; perhaps the romance of first encounter does not sing quite true here. However, to hear about the man and finally meet him seem as two different realities, so unlike the beleaguered words of an elder brother speaking humbly of his own.
> 
> He is kind. That I know. He must think me lonely, spending his days with an eclectic neighbor. It is so very fun to tease him when he watches me perform my morning exercise. I endeavor to dress in my most revealing attire, the brisk air my ally in temptation as I bend and shift before eyes that shyly conceal their hunger.
> 
> Perhaps it is cruel of me, when he finally acquiesces to a training session, that I fell him in a few practiced moves. However, dear reader, you cannot know the thrill of him, to have his muscled chest pressed beneath my knee, to see his lips half-parted and panting, flushed with exhilaration. Dear reader, there is no other I want gasping beneath me, his unwavering focus burning along my body, a rabbit before a wolf. How fortunate, that I am a secret fox, content to slink and tease until predator becomes prey!

The lines on the screen blur. He clutches his phone so hard it hurts. 

> I invite him to my night classes. He comes. I invite him to my home. He comes. If only it was so easy to invite him to my bed. Would he _come_ there too? Would he obey as eagerly as he drags his eyes across me? How I hope! I can feel the promise of it in the harried scramble of his hands upon me as we spar, the stumbled reply as I tease him with flirty turns of phrase.
> 
> Ah, but I am too excited. I believe myself patient, but such things try even a practiced man’s restraint.
> 
> So it goes, our little dance. The more time we spend together as he aids in my daily tasks, craned over a holopad with plush lower lip bitten, the more I am lost. He focuses so intently on my work with nary anything in return, save for company and a few sweet confections. How pleased it makes me, how wild, how selfish I’ve become, leaning on him each day.
> 
> A terrifying thought occurs as I lose myself in the steps, the timing and turns: I am stealing precious youth from him. So much younger than I, fresh and bright. He could have anyone he deigned to give his attentions. And so the fox’s jaws dew with a feral snarl, unpleasant, potent possessiveness tugging at the fragile, stubborn thing beneath my ribs.
> 
> But I did not have to strike.

“That’s it?”

He lets his phone fall to his chest, then he rolls on his side, tugging the comforter to his shoulders.

Genji wills his heart to stop racing, for his body to settle, so embarrassingly feverish from a few paragraphs undeniably penned in Zenyatta’s style. Words of pure fantasy, loosely based on real life.

Or so he tells himself.

* * *

Genji meets up with old friends in the city in the following weeks, but the whole scene seem so different now. His friends are unchanged, as carefree and lackadaisical as he was a few years ago. Though he enjoys catching up, there’s no familiar spark of excitement beneath the shifting neon lights and rumbling bass.

He’s already tired two hours into the night, and his mind wanders as he sips the boozy, too-sweet concoction he used to throw back with abandon. His friends have already joined the dance floor, and he watches with a wan smile, wondering how early he can excuse himself and not dampen the evening.

Between one sip and the next, he spots someone familiar in the crowd, though at second glance he realizes it’s not who he thought it was. Shorter, a little too thin, but with warm skin and a shaved head. They turn, and gold-lined eyes catch him looking. Their lips are pouty, shiny with gloss; they beckon Genji with a haughty tilt of their chin while they sway with the crowd.

Genji laughs under his breath, downing the rest of his drink. He slips onto the dance floor, finds his partner in fishnets and leggings beneath the ever shifting lights. They dance with Genji’s hands on their hips, tugging him close, leaning into his body. From one song to the next, they turn around, leading Genji’s hands again to their hips, grinding slow and sinuous against his front.

So close, they smell sweet and warm. The swath of their neck is without freckles, but surrounded by writhing, half-naked bodies and flickering lights, he can imagine as he dances and kisses them just beneath their ear, tasting salt and the gentle bitterness of perfume.

He’s hard by the time they glance over their shoulder at him, pupils large and lips pursed. They disappear slowly into the crowd with their hand lingering on Genji’s.

A chance to pursue, a signal for it. He knows the signs well, and _God_ , he wants to, lost in the memory of smooth black tea and a comforting, sonorous voice.

Genji’d already be asleep any other night. He goes to bed early now, so he can take care of Hanzo. So he can prepare for morning training. For him.

It’s late. Too late.

Genji leaves alone.

* * *

_I’ve got it bad_ , Genji admits to himself while staring at the glowing, plastic stars of his ceiling.

Hanzo beats him to the kitchen for the first time since he returned home. His brother only smiles when he groggily crosses the cold tile towards the coffee maker.

“I’m glad, actually. Having you wake before me is unsettling.”

Genji bumps his shoulder as he takes the steaming cup Hanzo had prepared for him.

* * *

“You seem unwell. Did something happen?”

Genji flushes dully and shakes his head. Today Zenyatta’s donned a halter top with a pair of high-waisted leggings, the delicious dip of his belly peeking out as he moves.

“Perhaps we should bypass practice and meditate. Rest is as important as unrest.”

He acquiences with a nod, following suit when Zenyatta sits across from him on the ground. No matter how he tries, Genji cannot let go of his jumbled thoughts. Not with each draw and exhale of Zenyatta’s breath, near silent, washing over him. Close, so close. His mind fills with the melody of the song that played while he imagined Zenyatta swaying against him.

“I am not sure this is working.”

When he opens his eyes, Zenyatta’s planted his chin on his knees, watching him with a tilt of his head.

“There are times little can be done to sooth our worries. We can only wait for the unease to pass.”

The sounds of the morning settle around them, birds and a gentle breeze. Zenyatta sighs along with the wind.

“Have you been to the cafe on North street?”

Genji tilts his head before he stretches his legs out and plants his palms behind him.

“Shambaltea?”

“Yes. They have great dessert smoothies. I want you to try one.”

“Now? It’s seven-thirty.”

“Why should we let the time of dictate when we experience the delicacies of life?”

Somehow, through it all, Genji laughs.

“Who can argue with that?”

* * *

Zenyatta’s rarely so focused on him as he is now, with lips poised over the straw to the monstrosity that is Shambaltea’s green tea smoothie. The barista, short and perky, did not even blink when he ordered such a concoction at quarter past eight.

The first pull is creamy and sweet, only a hint of matcha powder tempering the saccharine overload. Still—

“It is...better than I expected.”

Zenyatta glows at his words.

“How wonderful to hear. It is one of my favorites.”

“Do you want a sip?”

Zenyatta nods. Their hands brush as Zenyatta pulls the glass to his side of the table. Instead of picking it up, he leans forward, lips gingerly sealing around the end of the straw.

Genji doesn’t even notice the figure that stops beside their table.

“Zenyatta. I have not seen you in ages.” A smooth, dark voice rumbles over the din.

The man is huge and handsome. He wears a fitted suit like he was born to wear it.

Genji does not miss the way Zenyatta’s eyes widen as he takes the stranger in.

“Akande. It has been quite some time. You look well.”

“I have been busy acquiring a large property downtown.” Those deep brown eyes flicker over Genji once. “This is one of your students?”

“Yes. As well as friend and neighbor. Shimada Genji. Akande Ogundimu. A former student of mine.”

Akande’s hand dwarves Genji’s as they shake, his grip a hair away from painful. Genji doesn’t let it show on his face.

“Nice to meet you,”  Akande says. His attention shifts back to Zenyatta. “I hope you have had time to consider my offer. Perhaps your student will also enjoy everything that a new, state of the art facility has to offer?”

There’s a tightness to Zenyatta’s face Genji’s never seen before, even as he smiles.

“I am afraid that I am quite happy where I am. Some of my students would not be able to attend class if it was so far away.”

Akande lets the rejection roll off him. Still so relaxed, a quiet grin soundly planted on his face.

“It only means I will have to sweeten the deal.” Akande glances to Genji. “This man is one of a kind, isn’t he? Talented in spades, yet he keeps to himself and his community. Think of all he could accomplish with proper funding.”

“Please. I do not wish to burden Genji with talk of this.”

“My apologies, Zenyatta.” His large, manicured hand rests on Zenyatta’s shoulder for a moment longer than necessary. “I look forward to convincing you.”

Genji glares at his back until he disappears with the gentle clatter of the door bell.

“I am sorry. I did not wish for you to witness that,” Zenyatta murmurs, snapping Genji’s attention back to him. “I took Akande as a student because he showed promise. I did not know he held such unbridled ambition.”

“Yeah. Seems like an asshole to me.” Genji weaves his hands behind his head as Zenyatta snorts.

“Well, I was young. I thought the training would mellow him. He is certainly one who will not be dissuaded from his goals.” Zenyatta looks out the window, watching the passersby enjoying the cool morning air.

They finish the smoothie in relative silence, the strange, tense feeling inside him never abating, even as they walk home together.

* * *

That night, there’s a new post on Zenyatta’s blog. Genji settles into bed, and not even the sounds of the distant storm outside can calm him.

 

> Shinji seems content to stay at my side. He is conscious of my comfort, hesitant to reveal his feelings if it means losing what we have together. If only he knew of my fantasies! Dear reader, you may think me lewd, but between imagination and reality, there exists a formidable impasse when it involves my curious neighbor.
> 
> Stockings are one such fantasy. I love the feel of them as I drag my thighs together, even more so when they are nudged apart by hot, heavy hands that tremble along their seams. Would Shinji humor me? Would he draw the stocking over my naked calf, carefully slipping it to mid thigh? Or perhaps I should find him one night, already clad in such garments, and have him peel them from my body?
> 
> A knock at the door summons me from heady daydream. I rarely receive visitors at such a time. Rare but not unheard of.
> 
> I am greeted by a chest clad in a crisp, fitted shirt. I look up and up, into the eyes of a past lover, momentarily stunning me.
> 
> “Ah, how I have missed such a look from you.” A warm hand envelops my own, and I would speak false if I said it did not make my heartbeat quicken!
> 
> “Abioye. Though it is nice to see you, it is a bit...unexpected.”
> 
> My hand is captive in his grip, and he dips to meet it halfway, planting a kiss against my knuckles. A startled laugh escapes, my own, and my face flushes.
> 
> “So you have missed me? I am glad you feel the same.”
> 
> The words are whispered over my hand, preceded by another soft kiss. His lips are so soft and full. I almost forget we are on my porch, faintly illuminated by a single outdoor light.
> 
> “I…”
> 
> His hands clasp my shoulders, familiar, disarming. Then heat at my ear, more rumbled words.
> 
> “Surely you miss _all_ of me?”
> 
> The brush of lips against my neck. More insistent, a ghost of teeth, sharp and perfect, knowing me. A hard chill at my back as he eases me against the door, his profile thrown in stark relief from the eclipsing light. I am laid bare in the tantalizing gleam of his eyes.
> 
> “I know just how to make you sing,” Abioye says into my skin, and how infuriating, how truly he tries my restraint.
> 
> His thigh slips between my own, a startled gasp earned. It has been so long, my ardour potent, left to languish between classes and writing and wanting—
> 
> Light flickers over Abioye’s shoulder. Movement at Shinji’s window.
> 
> I—
> 
> I plant my hands against his muscled chest, and there’s a few moments between when I push Abioye away and when he moves of his own accord. Stilted, his face awash in surprise.
> 
> “No, I... We are over, Abioye.”
> 
> It is not as strong as I mean it, that much shows on my old lover’s face, that smooth, easy grin replacing slackened awe.
> 
> “That _boy_ will never be able to satisfy you.”
> 
> Out of nowhere, like a strike. It steals my breath.
> 
> “He will not know you for what you are...and will squander you.” Abioye shrugs his shoulders, slowly, too slowly dragging away, presence like a wave receding, and I am almost caught in the tide.
> 
> “It is my decision to make, nonetheless.”
> 
> “And I am nothing if not patient. Play with him to your fill. Know that when you finally fall into my arms, I will not share.”
> 
> He grasps my hand a final time, slipping something flat into it before turning to the darkness, his car lighting up in the driveway.
> 
> “See you soon, my love.”
> 
> I am left unsure, body quivering, flames fanned and doused with tepid mist. I look at the thing in my hand: a business card, of heavy stock and lettered in gold foil. A test. A temptation.

Genji cocks his hand back, then freezes, a fraction of a second from throwing his phone. He squeezes it instead, glaring as if the device itself is the cause of...whatever violent knot of emotion swells within him. His mind flares from one ridiculous scenario to the next, each as confusing, as powerful, as the storm battering his bedroom window.

He tugs on his jeans before he can question himself, a letterman’s jacket hastily following.

The rain outside does little to cool him, not even when he’s blinking the unrelenting wetness from his eyes. The rain, just the rain.  

The door opens, and he winces. He doesn’t remember knocking.

“Genji,” Zenyatta manages over the roar of the storm.

He ushers Genji inside.

* * *

The familiar warmth of the kitchen greets him. Zenyatta leads Genji into a seat with a light touch at his shoulder and back.

“You are soaked through.”

A few moments pass, quiet footsteps. The sound of sliding wood. A gentle weight against his head, smooth undulations as Zenyatta towels off his hair. Silence blooms, the gentle, contemplative lull of Zenyatta’s presence settling over him.

“Do you wish to talk?”

He studies Zenyatta’s face. Serene, even now, though his eyes are slightly tense, the faintest crow’s feet crinkling their edges.

Zenyatta stills when Genji slides his hands over the ones still balanced on his head. Genji cannot hear himself speak over the sound of his pulse.

“I don’t know what to do.”

His gaze falls away from Zenyatta’s, afraid to see his reaction. It almost makes him angry, how Zenyatta won’t say anything. Waiting, always _waiting_ until Genji says it himself.

And the worst part? Zenyatta would never press it. They’d ride out this limbo together if he thought the alternative would drive him away.

“You like me, right?” Genji says.

The fingers beneath his grip tense. Genji tastes his heart in his throat.

Zenyatta exhales softly.

“I am...quite fond of you.”

Genji’s fingers tighten around Zenyatta’s. He’s warm, so warm, like he’s flushed all the way to his knuckles.

“What do you want from me?” Genji presses, then softer. “To throw you down? Ravish you right here in the kitchen?”

He looks directly at Zenyatta, catching his expression brightening with surprise. For several, heart sinking seconds, he says nothing at all. Zenyatta only averts his eyes, a faint blush dusting over round cheekbones.

Then.

“I would...prefer a kiss, first.”

The towel slips to the floor as Genji guides Zenyatta by his wrists, clasping each calloused palm against his own face.

The world slows. Zenyatta leans in, his breath gently spiced from late-night tea. The air shifts. Weight settles into his lap, the old wood groaning as it holds them both.

With Zenyatta’s body a hot line along his own, his courage wavers. It is Zenyatta’s turn to guide Genji’s hands, and he places them at his waist. Genji drags his thumbs along the expanse of skin hidden by the threadbare cotton, savoring the body, the man, that had poisoned his dreams since the day they had met.

“You have not given me an answer in return,” Zenyatta breathes over his cheek. He’s so close that Genji feels his smile.

“‘I am quite fond of you’ too.”

Zenyatta laughs against his lips, a quiet snort marking the beginning of their first kiss. It’s almost chaste, a light pressure balanced at the edge of their lips. The next one is firmer as they find courage, a gentle smack whispering in the silence. Zenyatta shifts his hand to cup beneath Genji’s ear, drags his thumb along his thundering pulsepoint.

A gasp is all he needs. Genji’s lips part with it, and the hot, silk slip of Zenyatta’s tongue teases between his teeth, lashing against his own. The kiss deepens with an immediate intensity; Zenyatta’s free arm circles Genji’s shoulders and clutches, pulling their fronts flush. The man’s warmth bleeds through his soaked shirt, and Genji shudders with it, hands a sudden vice on Zenyatta’s hips.

There’s no denying how hard he’s getting, not with every push and shift while Zenyatta kisses him senseless, the insistent, plush catch of his lips maddening and teasing, unstoppable once Zenyatta whimpers into his mouth and angles his hips forward, a telling grind against his damp stomach.

He’s never seen Zenyatta like this: eyes thinned and hazy, freckles and scars stark within the flush blooming from cheek to ear, lips parted on small, shaky breaths.

“B-bedroom.”

“Oh?”

Genji sounds downright lecherous as he links his arms around the small of Zenyatta’s back, keeping their lower bodies flattened to each other while he surveys him: the front of his shirt damp and dark where they’ve pressed together, peaked nipples and the stark angles of his body translucent beneath white fabric.

“Wouldn’t it make a better chapter if I took you right here?”

Zenyatta’s face goes so _dark_. He exhales in a rush, eyes round and pretty.

“You’ve…” He claps a hand over his face, but Genji stands, jostling Zenyatta as he carries him towards his room.

“There is a difference between… _that_ and… actually doing it,” Zenyatta murmurs into his ear.

His legs tighten around Genji’s waist. Lips replace words against his neck, then the tug of teeth, shocking a low groan from deep in Genji’s chest. He tries to set Zenyatta down on the bed, but the man won’t let him go, nipping and sucking at his pulsepoint, little bursts of want throbbing down his body.

“And…‘Abioye’?”

Zenyatta chuckles shakily, heat and capriciousness in one.

“Readers do so love rivals.”  

Genji frees himself enough to tug his shirt and jacket off, his pants not far behind while Zenyatta reclines on the bed, transfixed by the man before him. Genji cannot suppress a shiver with those eyes on him, knowing, always knowing. He catches Zenyatta’s wrist before the man can work his own shirt off.

“Like this. You’ve teased me for weeks. I’ll have my revenge.”

Zenyatta’s expression becomes deviant.

“Only weeks?”

Genji’s on him in an instant, kissing those grinning, swollen lips, dominating the exchange that Zenyatta had led so deviantly. There is no passiveness to him even so, Zenyatta’s hands sliding around his body, clutching his biceps and back, twisting inward to cup at the outline of Genji’s cock, trapped and throbbing down one thigh.

Genji swears and buries against Zenyatta’s throat, littering the warm skin with hard, punishing bites, thrilling at the dark marks that bloom beneath his mouth. The thought of Akande seeing them on their next outing, covered in his claim—Zenyatta squeezes his cock through the fabric of his boxers, lifting his thigh so obligingly when Genji grinds against him.

“How long?” Genji bites.

He tries his hardest not to rut like a teenager. Zenyatta weakens him so, makes him lose himself even in something so rudimentary. His hands find the hem of Zenyatta’s shirt, and he tugs the fabric up rudely, exposing that long, shivery stomach and the darkened peaks of his nipples.

“How long?” Zenyatta repeats, like he’s only mimicking the words instead of pondering their meaning.

His gasp rings harsh when Genji descends on his chest, enclosing a nipple in his searing mouth. He doesn’t suck, not quite, circles it with his tongue, flicks and teases over its apex until Zenyatta buries his fingers in his hair, urging him harder. Genji suckles then, emboldened by his noises, how Zenyatta’s hips jerk into each pull, especially harder ones, groans pitched high and breathy.

“How long have you been teasing me?”

Genji’s voice is so rough when he asks, the question ghosting over the achingly peaked nipple, coaxed from the confines of the plush, tight skin around it. His mind narrows then, determined to leave Zenyatta’s untouched nipple in the same state while the man writhes and sinks his fingers into Genji’s back.

“At first sight?” Genji teases before he bites the skin around his other nipple, just hard enough that it leaves faint indentations around that swollen, saliva-slick skin. He licks the mark, shoves his tongue into each raw indentation.

The soft ‘ _oh_ ’ that joins the harsh pop of Genji’s mouth retreating warms Genji to his toes.

“Or c-close enough to it,” Zenyatta shakily replies.

Zenyatta’s cock is barely contained by old leggings, the outline obvious and so wet it leaks through the fabric. A single press of his hand has Zenyatta tossing his head back, and Genji drinks in the long, long line of his neck, the way his throat bulges as he swallows the embarrassing sounds threatening to spill. He keeps his touch gentle, some stubborn, deep-seated notion of payback still buzzing in his ears as he clutches the outline of Zenyatta’s cock. Not quite stroking it, enjoying each throb and twitch in his hands, his body begging where Zenyatta’s gone weak and wordless beneath him.

He barely manages to bat Zenyatta’s hand away as it slips into his boxers, then Genji urges that raised thigh down. He aches without the contact, the only thing staving off his desire to do every filthy thing Zenyatta’s story had suggested as well as a couple of Genji’s own.

With a few hard swears he tugs his cock through the opening of his boxers, and Zenyatta’s eyes and hands find it immediately, pressing like a brand against him. Genji hisses through his teeth at the first stroke, Zenyatta’s eyes blackened with their intensity as he stares at his hand on Genji’s cock. Zenyatta’s good at this, embarrassingly good, twisting on the upstroke, shifting his foreskin over his cockhead, nursing his thumb just beneath it. Genji’s pulse throbs in his ears, mouth hanging open on a constant, needy sound. He can’t remember the last time he’s felt so laid bare, led along like a pet beneath a master’s touch.

His eyes snap open blearily as an echoing sound spills from Zenyatta’s lips. He’d tugged his leggings down just enough to expose his cock, violently flushed and leaking in his slender hand as he sloppily works it in time with Genji’s.

Genji emits a sound embarrassingly close to a growl, and Zenyatta’s laugh cuts short as he presses Zenyatta’s hand away and slots his cock next to his, dragging against the tender skin just inside his hip bone. It’s so warm, his own pre slicking the drag so it’s something near smooth, his stomach rubbing along Zenyatta’s cock with each thrust. Genji struggles to keep his eyes open, each place his gaze rests driving his body faster and wilder. Zenyatta’s swollen lips, his slick nipples, the bite marks, gently purpled, their cocks catching against each other, not enough but nearly too much to bear.

Genji gasps into Zenyatta’s neck, breathing gone ragged when Zenyatta grasps their cocks, smearing their slick together, giving Genji just one more point of sensation, heightened and scrabbling for the edge.

“Just like this.” Zenyatta’s lips find his sweaty temple, a half kiss, half plea. “Hhmm—Genji—!!”

He flattens himself to Zenyatta so hard the bed creaks, hips dragging quick and brutal, only stuttering as he starts to come, teeth finding Zenyatta’s neck to muffle his broken moan. The pleasure is coals along his skin, burning, aching, leaving him shaken and scraped clean, a gentle fog settling in the space where his thoughts used to be.

Zenyatta shifts beneath him, a final, loving stroke given to Genji’s cock until he shifts to grasp his own.

Slowly, sated and lazily, he replaces Zenyatta’s hand, capturing the lips still balanced at his cheek as he works Zenyatta’s end from him. The man trembles through it, tenses once, twice, the smart, needy snaps of his hips jostling Genji’s hand as he spills in thick, copious pulses.

Their lips and tongues slow, the harried insistence of the kiss easing into tenderness. Zenyatta pulls away to breathe, a few final gasps exhaled as Genji draws his fingers over his softening cock.

“Genji,” he murmurs.

Genji brushes his lips along Zenyatta’s cheek before his hand settles on his stomach.

“Yeah?”

“I am more than fond of you.”

Zenyatta’s laughter joins Genji’s after a moment, followed by another kiss. Then another.

* * *

They are both startled awake by loud, rapid knocks at the door. Genji rubs his eyes, alarm replacing confusion as Zenyatta jumps out of bed and begins to dress.

“I had forgotten. Oh, how he must’ve _worried_.”

“Wait. What’s wrong?” Genji tugs on his clothes, though they are still damp in places from the night before.

“My brother’s schedule opened up last minute. It had somehow managed to slip my mind.” Zenyatta hesitates for a moment in the doorway. “Did…” A tentative smile tugs at his lips. “Would you like to meet my family?”

Genji freezes, though it is not fear or trepidation that steals his breath.

“Let me borrow a shirt and I’m yours.”

Zenyatta’s smile widens, though he clicks his tongue teasingly.

“Always you ask for so little.” The knocking grows louder, and he shakes his head. “And I shall pay your price gladly. Check the dresser in the corner. Bottom shelf. I will let them in.”

Genji watches Zenyatta disappear into the living room, momentarily stunned, but coming around to the idea more and more. Meeting his family. Being introduced to the people Zenyatta loves most. Being accepted, however tentatively, as one of them.

He hurries to the dresser.


End file.
